a day, he makes no reference to it in a letter to his sister, other
than to ask if she has not received a copy. This, however, was a
Mark Twain peculiarity. Writing was his trade; the returns from it
seldom excited him. It was only when he drifted into strange and
untried fields that he began to chase rainbows, to blow iridescent
bubbles, and count unmined gold.


To Mrs. Moffett, in St. Louis:

BUFFALO, Aug. 20, 1869.
MY DEAR SISTER,--I have only time to write a line. I got your letter
this morning and mailed it to Livy. She will be expecting me tonight and
I am sorry to disappoint her so, but then I couldn't well get away. I
will go next Saturday.

I have bundled up Livy's picture and will try and recollect to mail it
tomorrow. It is a porcelaintype and I think you will like it.

I am sorry I never got to St. Louis, because I may be too busy to go, for
a long time. But I have been busy all the time and St. Louis is clear
out of the way, and remote from the world and all ordinary routes of
travel. You must not place too much weight upon this idea of moving the
capital from Washington. St. Louis is in some respects a better place
for it than Washington, though there isn't more than a toss-up between
the two after all. One is dead and the other in a trance. Washington is
in the centre of population and business, while St. Louis is far removed
from both. And you know there is no geographical centre any more. The
railroads and telegraph have done away with all that. It is no longer
a matter of sufficient importance to be gravely considered by thinking